Part 2

Then humbly speaking, "The Lord," said he, "Has had great mercy on you and me! And now, my son, I must tell you why I came to speak with you--know that I Have tried with the Lord alone to dwell, For forty years, in my mountain cell; In prayer and solitude, day and night, Have striven to keep my candle bright! And there, but yesterday, while I prayed, An angel came to my side, and said That I should seek you,--and told me where,-- And should your life with my own compare; For in God's service and love and grace Your soul with mine has an equal place, We both alike have his mercy shared, The same reward is for both prepared. I came; I sought you--and you know how I found you out in the square just now! At which--may the Lord forgive my pride!-- At first I was poorly satisfied. But now I have heard your story through-- What you in a single night could do!-- And know that this to the Lord appears Worth all my service of forty years; I can but wonder, and thank His grace Which raised us both to an equal place,"

"But, Father, it never can be true! What?--I by the side of a saint like you? Ah no! You never to me were sent. 'T was some one else whom the angel meant!"

"No! Listen to me--'T was _you_, my son! Our Master said that a service done To a child of His in time of need Is done to Himself in very deed, And is with love by Himself received! So do not think I have been deceived, But keep those words on your heart engraved Of the humble woman whose life you saved, _God will remember_, and trust His care. He will not forget you here nor there!"

"O Father, Father! And can it be That the Lord in heaven remembers me? And yet I had felt it must be true, For the woman spoke as if she knew! But when was ever such mercy shown, And is this the love He bears His own? Are these the blessings He holds in store? Oh, let me serve Him for evermore!"

And when, at the close of another day, The hermit wearily made his way Up the mountain path, from stone to stone, He did not climb to his cell alone. The mountebank, still with wondering face, Came with him up to that peaceful place!

Together with thankful hearts they went, Thenceforth together their lives were spent. And, ere the summer had reached its close, Another cell from the rocks arose; The beech, in its strong and stately growth, Spread one green canopy over both. On summer evenings, when shepherds guide Their flocks to rest on the mountain side, They heard above, in the twilight calm, Two voices, chanting the evening psalm; And one was aged, and one was young, But never was hymn more sweetly sung!

In love and patience, by deed and word, They helped each other to serve the Lord,-- Together to pray, to learn, to teach,-- Till a deeper blessing fell on each. Their souls grew upward from day to day; But he who farthest had gone astray, Who, lowest fallen, had hardest striven, Who most had sinned and been most forgiven, Erelong in the heavenly race outran The older, milder, and wiser man. Two years he dwelt with his aged friend, Then made a blessed and peaceful end; And, when his penitent life was done, The hermit wept as he would for a son!

Ten years had over the mountain passed, Since that poor mountebank breathed his last, Helped, to the end, by a woman's prayer, Ten years; and the hermit still was there. Grown older, thinner, with shoulders bent, He seldom forth from his shelter went. But those he had helped in former days With prayers and counsel, in thousand ways, Were mindful of him, and brought him all He needed now, for his wants were small. And happy they were their best to give, If only their mountain saint would live! For in his living their lives were blest; And if he longed for the perfect rest, Patient he was, and content to wait, While God should please, at the heavenly gate. Beautiful now his face had grown, But the beauty was something not his own,-- A solemn light from the blessed land Within whose border he soon must stand. Little he said, but his every word Was saved and treasured by those who heard, To be a blessing in years to come, When he should be theirs no more; and some Who brought their little to help his need, Went home with their souls enriched indeed!

One autumn morning he sat alone, Outside his cell; and the warm sun shone With a friendly light on his silver hair, Through the branches, smooth and almost bare, Of the beech-tree, now, like him, grown old. The night before had been sharp and cold; And the frost was white on leaf and stem Wherever the rocks still shaded them, But where the sunbeams had found their way, In glittering, crystal drops it lay; And fallen leaves at his feet were strewn, Yellow and wet, over turf and stone.

He sat and dreamed, as the aged do, While, drifting backward, he lived anew The years that never again should be. A placid dream--for his soul was free From all the troubles of long ago, The doubts, the conflict he used to know! Doubts of himself, and a contest grim With evil spirits that strove for him. Now all was over; that troubled day Was like a storm that had passed away.

It seemed to him that his voyage was o'er; His ship already had touched the shore. Yet once he sighed; for he knew that he Was not the man he had hoped to be, And, looking back on his journey past, He felt--what all of us feel at last! And his soul was moved to pray once more The prayer he had made twelve years before, Only to know, before he died, If he were worthy to stand beside One of God's children, or great or small, Who served Him truly; and that was all!

It was not long ere the angel came, Who, gently calling the saint by name, Said: "Come, for thou hast not far to go. One step, and I to thine eyes will show The very dwelling that shelters now Two souls as near to the Lord as thou!"

The hermit rose; and with reverent tread He followed on as the angel led. Where a single cleft the rocks between Gave passage out of the valley green They passed, and stood in the pathway steep: The rocks about them were sunken deep In fern, and bramble, and purple heath, That sloped away to the woods beneath; While far below, and on every side, Were endless mountains, and forests wide, And scattered villages here and there, That all looked near in the clear, dry air. And here a church, with its belfry tall; And there a convent, whose massive wall Rose grave and stately above the trees. The hermit willingly looked at these; For hope they gave him that now, at least, Some praying brother or toiling priest Might be his mate; but it was not so! The angel showed him, away below, A slope where a little mountain-farm Lay, all spread out in the sunshine warm, Along the side of a wooded hill. It looked so peaceful and far and still! And when his eye on the farmhouse fell, The angel said: "It is there they dwell! Two women in heart and soul like thee. Go, find them, Brother, and thou shalt see All that thou art in their lives displayed." Before the hermit an answer made, The angel back to the skies had flown; He stood in the rocky path alone.

Along the broken and winding way Between the heath and the boulders gray; Through lonely pastures that led him down To oaken woods in their autumn brown; And o'er the stones of a rippling stream, The hermit passed, like one in a dream! As though the vision, had made him strong: He hardly knew that the way was long.

'T was almost noon when he came in sight Of the little farmhouse, low and white: A sheltered lane by the orchard led, Where mountain ash, with its berries red, Rose high above him; and brambles, grown All over the rough, low wall of stone, And tangled brier with thorny spray, And feathered clematis, edged the way. Then, turning shortly, a view he caught Of both the women for whom he sought.

One, spinning, sat by the open door; Her spindle danced on the worn stone floor. The other, just from the forest come, Had brought a bundle of branches home, And spread them now in the sun to dry; But both looked up as the saint drew nigh. Then, on a sudden, the spindle stopped, The branches all on the grass were dropped. He heard them joyfully both exclaim, "The Saint! The hermit!" And forth they came To bid him welcome, and made request That he would enter their house to rest.

But when a blessing they both implored, He had not courage to speak the word. The only blessing his lips let fall Was this: "May the good Lord bless us all, And keep our hearts in His peace divine!" With hand uplifted, he made the sign, Then entered in (to their joy complete!) And willingly took the offered seat.

And soon before him a meal was spread, Of chestnuts, of goat's milk cheese, and bread; While one with her pitcher went to bring Some water fresh from the ice-cold spring.

He could not taste of the food prepared Till he his errand to both declared. Said he: "My friends, I have come to-day With something grave on my mind to say, And more to hear; and I pray you now To answer truly, and not allow A feeling, whether of pride or shame, Or any shrinking from praise or blame, To change the answer you both may give, Of what you are and of how you live."

Then she with distaff still at her side, Of speech more ready, at once replied. In years the elder, but not in face, She kept a little of youthful grace: The dark eyes under her snow-white hair Were keen and clear as the autumn air!

"We are but what we appear to be: Two toiling women, as you may see! And neither so young nor strong as when In field and forest we helped the men. We now have only the lesser care, To keep the house, and the meals prepare, And other labours of small account, Yet something worth in the week's amount. But in our youth, and a lifetime through, We laboured, much as the others do! Through storm and sunshine we still have tried To do our best by our husbands' side. And keep their hearts and our own at rest When sickness came or when want oppressed. For even famine our house assailed That year when the corn and chestnuts failed. And once--that winter ten years ago-- Our house was buried beneath the snow, And ere it melted and light returned, The very benches for warmth we burned! Nor is there want, in our busy hive, Of children keeping the house alive: For she has seven, and I have nine; But three of hers and the first of mine Are safe with Jesus,--more happy they! Two more have married and gone away. My son's young wife, with her infant small, Make up the household--fourteen in all."

"In this," he said, "there is much to praise: In humble service you pass your days, And spend your life for your children's needs. But tell me now of the pious deeds (For such there are) that you seek to hide, To me in a vision signified!"

"But, sir, we are just two poor old wives. Who never have done in all our lives A pious deed that was worth the name!" She said; and her white head drooped with shame.

Then said the other: "And yet, 't is true, We help in all that our husbands do. When twice a year they have killed a sheep, 'T is only half for ourselves we keep; Our poorer neighbours have all the rest. And this, I fear, is the very best We ever do!" "And," said he, "'t is well! But think--is there nothing more to tell?"

They both were silent a little space, And each one questioned the other's face, Till, doubtful, when she had thought awhile, The elder said, with a modest smile: "This summer have forty years gone by, Since she--my sister-in-law--and I Together came in this house to dwell; And, Father, it is not much to tell, But in all these years, from first to last, No angry word has between us passed, Nor even a look that was less than kind. And that is all I can call to mind."

Enough it was for the hermit's need! He rose, like one from a burden freed. "Thank God!" he said; "if indeed He sees My soul as worthy and white as these! And great the mercy He doth bestow, That I should His hidden servants know!"

A sudden flash, as of heavenly light, Then shone within him, and all was bright; And in a moment were things made clear Had vexed him many a weary year! For he, who had thought on earth to view God's people only a scattered few, Saw now, in spirit, an army great Of hidden servants who on Him wait. No saintly legends their names disclose, And no man living their number knows, Nor can their service and place declare. The hidden servants are everywhere! And some are hated, despised, alone; And some to even themselves unknown. But the Father's house has room for all, And never one from His hand can fall! The one brave deed of a desperate man, Grown hard in crime since his youth began, Who yet, for a helpless woman's sake, Had strength to rise, and his chain to break; The holy sweetness that fills the heart Of him who dwells from the world apart, His life one dream of celestial things, Till almost heaven to earth he brings; Or yet the humble, unnoticed life Of toiling mother and patient wife, Who, year on year, has had grace to bear Her changeless burden of daily care,-- Are all accepted with equal love, And laid with treasures that wait above Until the day when we all believe That every man shall his deeds receive.

And when, that evening, with weary feet The hermit stood by his lone retreat, And watched awhile, with a tranquil gaze, The mountains soft in the sunset haze, And sleeping forest, and field below, He said, as he saw the star-like glow Of lights in the cottage windows far, "How many God's hidden servants are!"

*The Bag of Sand*

THE BAG OF SAND was written by St. Heradius, who visited, some time in the fifth century, the hermit fathers of the desert and mountains, and collected many interesting stories about them.

*The Bag of Sand*

_In that land of desolation_ _Where, mid dangers manifold,_ _Lost in heavenly contemplation,_ _Desert fathers dwelt of old,_

_Lay a field where grass was growing_ _Green beneath the palm-trees' shade;_ _And a spring, forever flowing,_ _Life amid the stillness made._

_There a brotherhood, incited_ _By one hope and purpose high,_ _Came to dwell in faith united,_ _Pray and labour, live and die._

_Mighty was the love that bound them._ _Each to each, in that wild land,_ _Where the desert closed around them,_ _One dead waste of rocks and sand,_

_Saving where, to rest their eyes on,_ _While they dreamed of hills divine,_ _Blue, above the low horizon,_ _Stretched the mountains' wavy line._

_There could nought of earth remind them,_ _Nor disturb their dreams and prayers;_ _They had left the world behind them,_ _Felt no more its joys and cares._

_Far from all its weary bustle,_ _Will subdued, and mind at ease._ _They could hear the palm-trees rustle_ _In the early morning breeze._

_When the bell, to prayer inviting._ _From the low-built belfry rang,_ _They could hear the birds uniting_ _With them while the psalms they sang._

_From the earth their labour brought them_ _All they needed--scanty fare._ _Life of toil and hardship taught them,_ _Though at peace, the cross to bear._

_This is all their record: never_ _Can we hope the rest to know!_ _Names and deeds are lost forever,_ _In the mist of long ago;_

_And of all that life angelic_ _Neither shadow left, nor trace._ _Save this tale,--a precious relic,_ _In its wise and saintly grace!_

_This, above the darkness lifted_ _By the truth that in it lay,_ _On the sea of time has drifted,_ _And is still our own to-day._

_Listen to it, it may teach us_ _Wisdom, with its words of gold!_ _Let this far-off blessing reach us_ _From the desert saints of old._

Underneath the vines they tended Where the garden air was sweet, Where the shadows, softly blended, Made an ever cool retreat,--

These good brethren had assembled, On their abbot to attend; All were sad, and many trembled, Thinking how the day would end.

Of their little congregation One who long had faithful been, Had, beneath a sore temptation, Fallen into grievous sin.

What it was they have not told us, But we know, whatever the blame, If God's hand should cease to hold us, You or I might do the same.

And for judgment's wise completing (Now the crime was certified), All were called in solemn meeting On the sentence to decide.

Much in doubt, they craved assistance, Sent to convents far away, Even to that fair blue distance Where their eyes had loved to stray.

Fathers learned, fathers saintly, Abbots used to think and rule, Gathered where the brook sang faintly In the shadow, green and cool.

Oh the beauty that was wasted On that day, remembered oft! Oh the sweetness, all untasted, Of the morning, still and soft!

At their feet the water glistened, Birds were nesting overhead; No one saw, and no one listened Save to what the speakers said.

Long and sad was their debating, Voices low and faces grave, While, the gloomy tale relating, Each in turn his judgment gave.

"Send him from you!" one was saying Calmly, as of reason sure; "All are tainted by his staying, Let men know your hands are pure!

"For the shame and sorrow brought you, Let him be to all as dead! Harm sufficient has he wrought you!" But the abbot shook his head.

For the sin which had undone him, For much evil brought about, He would lay a burden on him, But he could not cast him out!

All night long the distant howling, While he waked, of beasts of prey, Made him think of demons prowling, Come to snatch that soul away.

Said another: "I would rather That his shame by all were seen. Do not spare him, O my Father; Let the blow be swift and keen!

"Let not justice be evaded! Keep him, bound to labour hard, With you, but apart degraded, And from speech with all debarred!"

This the abbot not refusing, Only wondered, while he thought, Was there no one feared the losing Of a soul the Lord had bought?

One, more thoughtless, recommended That in prison closely pent He should stay till life was ended! But to this would none consent.

In the cell where first they closed him, Shrinking back, as best he might, From a window that exposed him Sometimes to a passer's sight,

He, the black offender, waited, From them parted since his fall: Once beloved, now scorned and hated By himself, he thought by all!

Nothing asking, nothing pleading, Speechless, tearless, in despair; But, like one in pain exceeding, Moving ever here and there.

Little did his fate alarm him: What had he to fear or shun? What could others do to harm him More than he himself had done?

But without were minds divided, And the morning wore away; Noon had come, and undecided Still the heavy question lay.

Though they looked so stern and fearless, Some with sinking hearts had come,-- Hearts that wept when eyes were tearless, Pleaded when the lips were dumb.

One who had that morning seen him, Seeking from their gaze to hide, Tried from heavy doom to screen him; But his reasons were denied.

He of other days was thinking,-- Happy days, and still so near!-- When that brother, shamed and shrinking, Had to all their souls been dear.

Others tried their hearts to harden, Felt their pity to be sin; Silent, prayed the Lord to pardon Kinder thoughts that rose within.

Some proposed and some objected, While, the long debate to end, One old Father they expected, And on him would all depend.

He--their honoured, best adviser-- Dwelt in desert cave retired; Older than the rest, and wiser: Many thought his words inspired;

Said he knew what passed within them When by sin or doubt assailed; True it is, his words could win them, Often, when all else had failed.

He would find what all were seeking, Justice pure, and judgment right! Still the abbot, seldom speaking, Pale and sober, prayed for light.

Light was sent! For, toiling slowly O'er the sun-baked desert road, Came that Father, wise and holy, Bent beneath a weary load!

Scarce his failing limbs sustained him, For the burden sorely pressed: Many times, as though it pained him, Would he stand to breathe and rest.

One who watched for his arriving, Went and told them he was near. Up they rose, and ceased their striving, In their joy such news to hear!

Then they all went forth and met him, By their reverent love compelled: Nevermore could one forget him, Who that day his face beheld!

Wasted, worn, yet strong to aid them; Peaceful, though by conflict tried; Shining with a light that made them Feel the Lord was by his side!

But it grieved their souls to see him By that burden bowed and strained! Many stretched their hands to free him, Wondering what the sack contained.

"Why this burden?" one addressed him; "All unfit for arms like thine!" He, while yet the weight oppressed him, Answered: "These are sins of mine.

"I must bear them all, my brother, Ever with me while I go On my way to judge another! These have made my journey slow."

Then the abbot, growing bolder, Raised the load with trembling hand From the Father's bended shoulder; Looked--and found it filled with sand.

Of them all, there was not any But was silent for a while; For the best had sins as many As the sand-grains in that pile!

Then they heard the abbot saying, "God alone must judge us all!" And a burden, heavy weighing, Seemed from every heart to fall.

Awed and hushed, but no more keeping Pity crushed, or love restrained, Some were smiling, some were weeping; Of their striving what remained?

Many bowed in veneration; Others all in haste to go With a word of consolation To their brother fallen low.

Hope they brought, and gentler feeling, To his torn, despairing breast, And that evening found him kneeling In the chapel with the rest.

None arose to judge or sentence: He whose sin they most deplored, In his long and sad repentance, Was with charity restored.

*Il Crocifisso della Providenza*

The crucifix about which this story is told is still to be seen in the church of the Carmine, where it is kept in the Corsini chapel; and it is always shown to the public on the first of May, when also (as the ballad relates) a _festa_ is held in the house once occupied by the three sisters, in the Via dell' Orto.

The house seems to have been little changed since they lived there; it now bears the number 10, and is easily recognized by a niche in the wall, containing a representation of the crucifix, and the chest piled with loaves.